I never saw the first Princess Diaries, but I was correct in assuming that the story was not so complicated that I'd be lost seeing the sequel unprepared. And while the experience was very similar to the time I went to go see Roxette in concert simply because a record store was giving away free tickets – that is, it was like being at a tent revival meeting for a religion not my own – I must say that for what it is, Royal Engagement is as charming and sweet as you could want. Since I was so out of my element watching it, I frequently scanned the (almost entirely female) audience for cues as to whether this sequel was serving up the goods. The delighted expressions on virtually every face (many of them be-tiara-ed) reminded me of the scene from Amélie where you see Audrey Tatou looking back on a movie theater audience and warming her heart. So I was not about to start looking for holes. What this movie is, is the ultimate teenage girl fantasy – and this caused me to reflect on how different are the fantasy lives of young women and their male counterparts. Whereas boys want to see treasure maps, spacecraft, gunplay, and/or underdog athletic achievements, girls seem to want to see gigantic walk-in closets full of designer shoes and glittery necklaces, unconsummated romantic entanglements with "nice guys" and/or "bad boys," cute dogs and cats, and credible authority figures imploring them to follow their hearts and believe in themselves. And is that so bad? I know a million people who reflexively assume that everything Disney® releases is a manipulative piece of horseshit, but every film I've seen from them in the past several years has had some really positive shit going on. Perhaps these films traditionally have been anti-feminist, but this one is girl-power all the way … the plot even centers on marriage, but ends in the lead character deciding not to marry. The true star of the show is not Anne Hathaway (on whom Garry Marshall tries extremely hard to confer Julia Roberts-dom with a slew of incongruous and obscure Pretty Woman self-references), but Julie Andrews, who is celebrated in virtually every scene, both for her character's grace and her own history as a performer (Sound of Music and Mary Poppins references abound). In one of the film's most fantastical moments, Dame Julie surfs a mattress down a giant slide – and it would be hard to quantify just how much I'd have paid to sit next to Tony Hawk watching that segment. And then there's Hector Elizondo, who is sort of an automatic punchline, but who commands each scene in such a way that I decided it's time to coin the term "Elizondo'd," as in "Dude, you've been Elizondo'd!" This would refer to a situation in which you have been either reduced to complete fear by Hector Elizondo's intimidating confidence, or turned to jelly by his sincere masculine charm. Other familiar faces include John Rhys-Davies as the true villain (he's terrific, of course); Tom Poston (funny but underused); Paul Williams (!); Heather Matarazzo (take that, hipsters – your indie queen is in the ultimate Disney® fantasy, and her gums have overtaken her face!); Raven (she's so Raven … increasingly so much more Raven, too, looking at that waistline); and Larry Miller (who, curiously, seems to be a comic genius to 13-year-old girls). I even got a bit choked up by an unexpected bit of heartstring-yankin' in a scene wherein Hathaway stops the royal parade of which she is the focus to go connect with some orphans. Shameless? Sure. Effective? Hey, man, I said I almost cried, alright?! Was this movie for me? Of course not. Is it for you? Of course not. But I dare say, I never shall allow myself to outright dismiss some girlie Disney® claptrap until I've seen it. Hm … well, unless it involves talking animals or babies, 'cause that shit just sucks.
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